The Faceless Murders
by CookieMonster4242
Summary: All John Watson had wanted that day was a cup of hot tea. Just a small cuppa. Instead he got a string of murders, each one bloodier than the last, and here's the kick. The victim's faces had all been carved off. That explains Sherlock's skyrocketing dopamine levels and the depletion of nicotine patches in 221B Baker Street.


Chapter One: The Faceless Murders

Author's Note

This is my first attempt at a Sherlock Fanfiction so I'm trying my best to come up with an intriguing plot, hope that you will like it.

This story shall be told from a third person's POV as per the Television series. I'm planning to start another story of Sherlock as well, but it will be in Watson's perspective, as per the book.

Enough of my rambling. On to the (hopefully interesting) story.

…

The sun was shining, the sky was clear. This was an extremely good morning, for all except those related to Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson was at his wits end. He wanted to strangle his roommate so, so, so badly and his professionalism as a doctor was to only thing holding him back. Well, it was the exact thing spurring him on too. He knew exactly where to put pressure on and exactly when to stop, making the idea not only feasible but also very tempting.

He was woken up at 5am by an incessant banging on his door, and when he opened the door, there was a note in his door. Not on but in.

Some bastard- no- The bastard carved the message into the door.

'Out. Won't be back until 9.'

Watson went back to sleep and when he woke again, he nearly had a heart attack. Standing on his sheets, in all his glory was the great Sherlock Holmes holding a knife inches from his face.

'Morning.' He had smiled before climbing off Watson and disappearing out the door.

John washed up and headed to the kitchen, managed to find space among the chemistry apparatus on the wooden table to place his cup of tea. After giving it time to cool while he read the paper, he reached out and brought the cup to his lips, only to find a thumb floating in it.

John took a large breath.

'Patience.' He reminded himself.

John dumped his cup and made a new one. Right before he could sip the warm drink, he was literally robbed of his cup by the person who made his mornings the absolute worst.

'Goddamn it, Sherlock. You wake me at 5, vandalized my door, tried to kill me in my sleep and ruined my cup of tea with a thumb. And if that was not enough, you steal my cup of tea? Come ON.' Watson yelled at his roommate, who was nonchalantly sipping HIS cup of tea.

'Honestly, Watson. You are so cranky in the morning, have a cup of tea.' Sherlock sighed at him while making his way to the living room.

'I was having it, thank you very much before you stole it-'Watson was stopped mid-rant by Sherlock abrupt standing.

'Finally.' Sherlock cracked into a wide smile and grabbed his coat off the rack.

'Wha-'Watson muttered, following Sherlock across the room to the doorway, where his companion disappeared down the stairs with a shout not to wait up for him.

John took a deep breath, making a promise to finish his conversation with Sherlock when he got back, and proceeded to turn back to the kitchen to make another cup of tea.

He got a tea-bag out of the box and reached for his cup, only to realize it was missing. He looked around blankly, frankly in disbelief that his cup had magically vanished. His eyes shut in frustration when he recalled when he had seen it last. In the hands of his dear, dear good friend Sherlock Holmes. Throwing the unused tea-bag on the countertop, he stormed out of the apartment, grabbed his coat and hailed a cab.

Damn his luck.

…

Sherlock behaved very much like a three-year old on Christmas, fidgety and grinning like a mad man. Taking large gulps from his cup of tea, Sherlock watched the scenery outside change from the boring streets full of people to one of a dark alley, with neon blue and red lights flashing. Stepping out of the police-car, Sherlock took a deep breath. It really did feel like Christmas with the faint small of blood faintly lingering in the air.

A full smile broke out as he shoved the cup he was holding into a near-by officer and briskly strode over to where Lestrade stood, in obvious confusion.

'Don't try to think too much, Lestrade. You already have far too little brain cells to spare.'

Greg sighed and turned to face the ever-so-infuriating man in a black coat.

'Where's Doctor Watson?' His brows furrowed, the two were always together.

'No worries, he'll be here shortly. He had a late start this morning.'

'If it wasn't for you, I would have had a wonderful morning, thank you very much.' John grumbled behind, steam bellowing from his ears. 'Now, where's my cup?!'

Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and stepped forward to take a look at the crime scene.

'Sherlock, where in blazes is my cup-'John's sentence died in his throat when he saw the corpse lying against the dirty wall, in a puddle of its blood.

His eyes traced up. From the pale white skin of the hand soaked in blood, to the shirt stained red, and when John made it to its face, he was glad he hadn't drank that cup of tea.

It would be on the floor if he had.

The corpse had no face. It was carved off, leaving behind a mess of red, different shades of that nauseating color.

'Interesting.' Sherlock muttered to himself, before stepping forward to take an even closer look.


End file.
